1
It was the silence I noticed first. When Danny was around there was always noise, singing or
humming, the tap-tapping of a laptop keyboard, the prolonged clatter of spoon against ceramic
mug as he stirred his black coffee vigorously for far too long, in my view, for a man who didn’t
even take sugar in it – what was he stirring? But I loved it, his noisiness, despite my regular
protestations to the contrary. I’d lived alone for far too long before Danny, and the constant
clamour made me feel connected, alive. Happy. So that evening, as I pushed the front door
open and slid the key out of the lock, expecting a welcoming yell from the living room or to
see, within seconds, his grinning face peering around the kitchen door, disappointment hit me
like an icy wave.
‘Danny? Danny, I’m home. Where are you?’
I could tell even as I spoke that he wasn’t in but, flicking the lights on and dumping my
overnight bag on the table by the door, I began a quick tour of the house anyway, my footsteps
echoing on the polished parquet of the hall floor. My frown deepened as I pushed each door
open, the rooms dark and empty. Where was he? He’d promised, the previous evening when
he’d emailed to say goodnight, that he’d be here when I got back, that he’d cook dinner. Even
promised, I remembered as I headed for the kitchen, to have a bottle of my favourite cava
chilling; a welcome home, Friday night treat. If he’d forgotten …
‘Dammit, Danny. Seriously?’
I glared at the contents of the fridge. It looked exactly as I’d left it on Thursday morning
– a half-full milk container, a block of cheese with one corner hacked off, a pack of sausages
with four missing, the four we’d eaten for breakfast before I’d headed off on my latest press
trip. No cava. No sign of any fresh food. He hadn’t even gone shopping? What was going on?
Had something happened at work, delaying him? He’d told me he’d be finishing at lunchtime
that day, for once, that he’d have plenty of time to do the supermarket run for a change, save
me doing it on Saturday morning as I usually did, while he stayed at home to run the vacuum
round and flick a duster over the shelves. A break from the little routine we’d quickly fallen
into, happily fallen into, since we’d moved to Bristol, and into the beautiful house in up-market
Clifton. It hadn’t always been like that, but when we moved he’d said he wanted to help around
the house more, do more of the chores I hated, and I hadn’t argued. We’d only been in our new
home for three weeks, but the words ‘domestic bliss’ pretty much summed things up,
cringeworthy as it sounded even to me.
‘You can have a lie-in on Saturday, Gem. You’ll be knackered after all that debauchery
at your fancy spa hotel,’ he’d said over our full English, reaching across the breakfast table to
wipe a splodge of ketchup from my bottom lip, his finger soft against my skin.
‘It’s work,’ I’d retorted, waggling my fork at him, then smiling as I speared another piece
of black pudding. ‘Well … maybe a teeny bit of debauchery too though.’
‘I don’t doubt it. You journalists, and your hard-livin’, hard-drinkin’ ways.’
His accent, normally soft west of Ireland, was suddenly full-on Moore Street Market,
Dublin, and I swallowed quickly and laughed.
‘Yeah, right. We’ll have a few drinks, but we’ll all be in bed by eleven, I guarantee it.
Too many exhausted mummies in the group now. A night away without the kids means they
can finally get a decent night’s sleep for once.’
He raised his thick, dark eyebrows – once a monobrow, until I’d finally pinned him to the
bed one day, brandishing my tweezers – and I laughed again at his comically exaggerated
expression of disbelief.
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘I didn’t say a word!’
2
He’d leapt from his chair then, dragging me from my seat and into a hug, whispering into
my hair.
‘I’ll miss you. But have a great time. You deserve it.’
So where are you now, Danny? I slammed the fridge door and reached into the pocket of
my zebra print coat for my mobile, then remembered. Bugger. There’d been some sort of delay
with Danny’s new workplace providing him with a company mobile phone – it would, they’d
previous job, he was temporarily phone-less. For a moment, I considered ringing his office,
asking them if he’d been made to work late, then sighed and decided against it. A bit much,
probably, when he’d only been in the job for such a short time, to have his wife calling,
wondering where he was. Email, then? He still had his tablet, and emailing had worked
reasonably well over the past few weeks when we’d needed to get hold of each other. We both
had Skype too, for emergencies, although we hadn’t needed to use it so far, and just like calling
his office, I thought Skyping him might be a bit intrusive. Yes, email.
I perched on the edge of one of the dining chairs and tapped out a message.
I’m home. Where are you? And, more to the point, where’s my dinner? And my
FIZZ!? G xx
I hit send, checked the time, and stood up with a sigh. Just after seven. I’d go and unpack,
have a nice hot shower, change. We could get some food delivered instead of cooking, and
maybe Danny could call in at the off-licence on his way home to pick up some bubbly, I
thought. I glanced around the kitchen, noticing that at least he’d washed up, wiped down the
surfaces, replaced the chopping knives neatly in their wooden block. Everything was spotless
in fact, a faint smell of bleach in the air, even the stainless-steel cooker hood gleaming. I felt
my mild irritation subsiding. It would be work, that was all. It wasn’t his fault he’d been
3
delayed. He’d be home soon. Slipping my coat from my shoulders, I headed back down the
hall to retrieve my bags.
4
2
‘Holy cow. It’s like looking at brothers. Coincidence, or not? What do you make of that, guv?’
Detective Sergeant Devon Clarke glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Detective Chief
Inspector Helena Dickens nodded slowly, indigo eyes fixed on the two photos on the board.
‘I dunno. Not yet, anyway. But yes, they do look spookily similar. Weird, eh?’
She looked at her watch. Just after seven. She sighed and turned to the room, wincing
slightly as she felt a twinge in her lower back. Last night’s run had been too long and too fast,
she thought.
‘OK, gather round everyone. I’m sorry to do this to you all on a Friday evening, but with
a second murder on our hands now I’m going to have to ask you to work right through the
weekend, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed. Let’s just go through what we’ve got so far, so
it’s all clear in everyone’s minds, and then I’ll distribute jobs.’
She waited, turning back to scan the board as chairs scraped and feet shuffled; then the
room fell silent, the ra
in which had started to fall an hour ago beating an urgent tattoo against
the windows, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee.
‘Thanks. Right, well I know some of you have just been brought into Bristol today to
swell our numbers, so thank you for that. I’m DCI Helena Dickens, senior investigating officer.
This is DS Devon Clarke.’
She waved a hand towards Devon, who dipped his head.
‘It’s been a while since Avon Police has had two murders on its hands in such a short time
frame, so we’re about to get very busy. There’s nothing at the moment to suggest that the two
killings are linked, although we’re still waiting on the forensics report on the latest. But …’ she
paused and exchanged glances with Devon, ‘well, let’s start at the beginning. Devon, can you
take us through what we know about Mervin Elliott?’
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‘Sure.’
Devon nodded, and cleared his throat.
‘OK. This is Mervin Elliott.’
He pointed to the photograph on the top left corner of the board.
‘Thirty-two years old, men’s clothing shop manager – one of those trendy places in Cabot
Circus. Single, heterosexual, no children, lived alone in an apartment down at the harbourside.
His body was found on Clifton Down by a dog walker just over two weeks ago, early on the
morning of Wednesday, the thirteenth of February. Here, just off Ladies Mile, near Stoke
suburb of Clifton. ‘His body was half hidden by shrubs, a bush, something like that. Time of
death estimated to be about ten or eleven hours earlier, so between seven and eight the night
before, Tuesday, the twelfth. Cause of death, blow to the head. No other significant injuries.
No murder weapon found.’
He paused, rubbed his nose and continued.
‘According to everyone we’ve spoken to so far, he was a nice, normal guy. Worked hard,
single as I said; his mates said he’d been on the odd date recently, usually women he met online,
but hadn’t found anyone he wanted to get serious with. Sociable bloke though, liked a night
out by all accounts, but wasn’t a drug user or even a particularly big drinker. He was big into
fitness, member of a gym – that big 24-hour one at the harbour, near his flat. Looked after
himself. No criminal record. No obvious motive at all for his murder. Looked like he’d been
out running the night he was killed – he was wearing trainers and exercise gear when his body
was found. But he had a pretty nice sports watch on, and a decent phone in his pocket, and they
weren’t touched. Parts of The Downs get their share of doggers and so on at night, people
cruising for action, but there was no sign of recent sexual activity on the body, no evidence he
was there for anything like that. And so far, we’ve not found any witnesses to the attack. It
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would have been dark at that time of course. But so far, we have very little to go on. No
forensics of any use. Nada.’
A phone suddenly trilled on a desk at the back of the room, and Devon waited while one
of the young detective constables sprinted to grab it, answering it in hushed tones then
grimacing at Devon.
‘Nothing major,’ she mouthed.
Devon nodded and turned back to the board.
‘OK, so that’s Mervin Elliott. This …’ he gestured at the photograph to the right of the
first, ‘is Ryan Jones. His body was found yesterday morning, Thursday, the twenty-eighth of
February, in a lane between two houses on Berkeley Rise. That’s here, just off Saville Road.’
He ran his finger across the map.
‘Saville Road borders Durdham Down to the east. And, for those unfamiliar with The
Downs, Durdham Down is the northern part, north of Stoke Road. Clifton Down is the southern
bit. About four hundred acres in total.’
‘So … the two bodies were found, what? Less than a mile apart?’
The question came from somewhere at the back of the assembled group of officers. Devon
nodded.
‘About that, yes. Again, cause of death was probably head injuries but we’re waiting for
the results of the post mortem – should be with us any minute; they’ve had a bit of a backlog
down there, couple of nasty car accidents got in ahead of us. He also had a couple of minor
injuries elsewhere but nothing significant. His head injury was again consistent with being
attacked with a heavy weapon of some sort. Again though no sign of that murder weapon. Early
days on this one though, as he was only found yesterday. At the scene time of death was again
estimated to have been about ten hours earlier, so sometime on Wednesday evening. He was
found by a local resident who was out for an early morning cycle and took a shortcut down the
7
lane. We got an ID from the victim’s wallet, which was still in his pocket with about fifty quid
in it. Ryan was thirty-one and also single, no kids, dated a bit but again no serious girlfriend as
far as we know at this early stage. Worked as an accountant for a firm in Queen Square. Again,
early days but so far he sounds a bit like our first victim – nice, normal guy, no record.’
He paused and turned to look at Helena.
‘No CCTV in the area he was found, I assume?’ she asked.
Devon shook his head.
‘No cameras in that area at all. It’s a lot more built up than where Mervin was found
though, obviously, so we started doing house to house yesterday afternoon, but so far nobody
seems to have seen or heard anything.’
Helena sighed.
‘Remind us what he was wearing? Ryan, I mean.’
Devon turned back to the board.
‘Normal clothes. As in, not running gear or anything. Jeans, trainers, a navy jumper, big
black puffa coat. It was cold on Wednesday night. And no, we haven’t worked out yet what he
was doing in the area. He lived at an address in …’ he frowned, eyes searching the board, ‘in
Redcliffe. So two, three miles away from where he was found.’
‘Thanks, Devon.’
Helena cleared her throat and turned to the room.
‘OK, so that’s the basics. Two dead men, both with head injuries, both murdered in The
Downs area within a couple of weeks of each other. Both successful and hardworking, both in
their early thirties. Two men whom, as far as we know at the moment, had no involvement in
any sort of criminal activity. And, two men who look …’ she turned back to the board again,
tapping first the photo of Mervin and then Ryan’s image, ‘who look, quite frankly, like bloody
twins. The same dark curly hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows. Similar height and build. Might
8
mean nothing but …’she shrugged and turned back to face the assembled officers, ‘kind of
weird, eh? OK, listen. Let’s not get too hung up on their appearances for now. And of course,
there may be no connection between these two murders whatsoever. But we can’t rule it out,
not at this stage, considering the similarities between the two cases. Let’s keep an open mind
and let the facts guide us.
‘Forensics on Ryan might help when we get them, if we’re lucky. But in the meantime,
let’s talk to as many of their friends and family members as possible, and see if there are any
common factors – Re
dcliffe and the harbour aren’t that far apart, so did these two hang out in
the same bars, did they know each other, did they have any mutual friends or common interests?
And why were they both on – or, in Ryan’s case, very close to – The Downs, on the nights they
died? OK, so Mervin was there running, and it’s a nice place to run, I run there myself now
and again. But he’s a member of a gym and, even if he preferred running outdoors, there are
plenty of routes to choose from around Bristol. So why there, specifically? Was it something
he did regularly? And why was Ryan in the area? Was he visiting a friend, a relative? We need
to know everything about these two, and fast.’
She stopped talking, watching as her colleagues scribbled notes on their pads, many of
them exchanging glances. She knew instantly what they were thinking. It was something she’d
thought herself, immediately and with a sudden sick, sinking feeling in her stomach, when
Ryan Jones’s photograph had been stuck on the board yesterday next to Mervin Elliott’s. If
these two murders were connected, if they’d been carried out by the same person, well …
She swallowed hard. It needed to be three, though, officially. Three murders, to fit the
most widely used UK definition. And so far it was only two. Please God, she thought, let it
stay that way.
Two was bad enough.
But three …
9
Three, and she might just have a serial killer on her hands.
10
3
‘Where the hell are you, Danny? This is getting ridiculous.’
I stopped pacing up and down the kitchen for a moment to stand and stare out of the rain-
streaked window into the elegant courtyard at the back of the house, willing him to suddenly
appear, my fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. It was late Saturday afternoon and,
despite my best efforts all day to track my husband down, I’d come up with precisely nothing.
I needed to make some more phone calls, but I’d have to calm myself down first. I took a deep
breath, trying to slow my racing heartbeat, and rested my forehead against the cold glass, eyes
flitting across the yard. On two levels separated by a row of pleached hornbeam trees, the
beautifully designed limestone-paved space had enthralled me from the moment Danny and I
had first come to view the place. In the centre of the top level nearest the house, water bubbled